


Down

by emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Did I mention spoilers?, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps Jim Moriarty in a freaking dungeon in his mind palace. What did they expect us to do with that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вниз](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170475) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)



> * SPOILERS here for series 3 of Sherlock, _His Last Vow_ in particular.  
>  * I used [Ariane DeVere's fantastic transcript of His Last Vow](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html) as a reference for this.  
> * Many big, squishy cuddles to Drinkingcocoa for her ever-insightful comments on this story.

It's not what they think it is – not even close. The slide into oblivion is a relief, certainly, but it's more that it's like pressing pause on his brain. He can do things then, feel things – _be_ things – that he wouldn't allow himself otherwise. He'd be too self-conscious, too critical, would read too much into his own subconscious.

It's not about _not_ thinking. 

He closes his eyes and walks down the stairs, palm sliding across the worn railing, down, down. The sun shines on his eyelids and he opens them again, lets his gaze slip across the peeling wallpaper and chipped, water-swollen paint. 

It was a palace, once, stately and beautiful. Time has taken its toll, though, and he hasn't kept the place up. Couldn't do, not with all the running and working and hiding and hunting. Graffiti on the walls here, electrical wires hanging from a ripped-out socket there – that was Cambodia, that one, best to keep walking down because he's _not-thinking_ now.

Past the large oak door with the brass letters, the one he always keeps locked now, the one he hasn't opened in a month and may never open again. Past the metal door covered with scratches from his own fingernails, the one he can never open. How there is a door here that he can't open is a complete mystery, but again, one for another time. It's all right now, because everything is slow and smooth, and he doesn't mind.

Down, down to the very bottom, and then down a bit more, down to a door that is always in shadow. He built this room years ago and avoided it until after, after it was done and he was dead and there was nothing to be afraid of any more. The door is locked, which is unnecessary, but he turns the handle just so and touches his fingertip to the lock, and it clicks. He pushes the door open.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust and then he hears it – a rumbling sort of chuckle.

"Back again so soon?"

He doesn't say anything, just walks through the door and closes it behind him. He always closes it, though it shouldn't matter. It isn't as if anyone will see.

The chuckle melts into a mocking singsong. "Missed me, missed me, now you gotta—"

"Shut up." 

There is a sound of movement, a metallic rustle of chain links, and a dim blur emerges from the shadows, drawing closer, closer. Sherlock squints, focuses his uncooperative eyes, and Jim's face suddenly resolves before him: pale, haunted, red-eyed, maddening. "Can't bear it, can you, being so very alone? I don't blame you. They're awful, the lot of them."

Sherlock clenches his jaw. "Not all of them."

Jim's head tilts, looming. "Oh, no, no, noooooo. Not _all_ of them. Even though he's gone and put a pup in the bitch, you still want him to love you the most." He pauses and his eyes widen, as if in horror. "Oh, dear. He'll never leave her now, will he? Not loyal, trustworthy, hardworking, wonderful-beautiful _John_. Not when he's going to be a Daddy." He settles on his knees and sighs. "Too bad. Life sucks, doesn't it?"

"Shut up." There isn't venom in his voice, not anymore. The words don't pierce him now, not the way they did a few weeks ago. 

"Make me."

"Wouldn't you like it if I did?"

"It's why you're here, isn't it?" The smirk is inhuman, but that doesn't put Sherlock off. Anymore.

"Yes." He steps forward until he's towering over Jim, forcing him to crane his neck back to look up. He draws a finger down Jim's cheek, through the grime on his face. The man is filthy: hair matted, teeth yellowed, lips cracked and bleeding. Sherlock doesn't particularly care right now. 

"Go on then. Shut. Me. Up." He pops the last sound with his lips and doesn't close his mouth, runs the tip of his tongue over his teeth. It's vulgar and disgusting, and it's exactly what Sherlock needs right now. 

He unfastens the button of his trousers and pulls the zip down, and pushes his pants down enough to draw his penis out. He's not hard, not yet, but it doesn't matter.

"Oh, God, no, not that," Jim drawls in a stale monotone. "Sherlock, you filthy animal, leave me aloooone."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You could put in a bit of effort, you know." 

Jim's dead eyes spark a bit, widen, and he leans forward, his voice a harsh whisper. "I will if you will."

"Fuck you."

"Oh honey, you do know how to turn me on, don't you?"

Sherlock grabs a handful of hair and cranes Jim's head back until he winces in pain. "This isn't about you. Now open."

Jim obeys, somehow managing to smirk even as Sherlock shoves the flaccid head of his penis into his mouth. It's always strange, this part. He feels Jim's mouth engulfing him, hot and wet, and his dimmed libido finally stirs. Blood rushes, he tightens his grip, and Jim makes a satisfying gagging sound.

Not that it shuts him up – not really.

_He never did this for you, did he? You thought about it, you naughty boy, but he never wanted that, not from a dirty freak like you._

Sherlock grits his teeth, focuses on the sensation. Hot slick slide, and Jim just taking it, yes, good…

_I'll bet she does it for him, on her knees, hands tied behind her back. And he loves it, and he never pretends it's you._

The image fills his mind before he can stop it, and it derails him for a moment. He pauses, exhales, and moves again, fingers at the base of his penis brushing against Jim's dry lips with every stroke.

♫ _John doesn't love you; He's always going to leave you…_ ♫

"Shut UP!" Sherlock hisses and pushes his cock down Jim's throat, feels the head slip past the uvula and into the tight channel beyond. Jim strains against him, but the voice is gone now, and Sherlock holds his head still and fucks his throat, pushing towards release. 

It takes longer than it should, longer than it usually does. He almost derails himself twice, starts to lose his erection – _stop thinking_ – but he feels the orgasm swell at last, a tightening in his balls and then over, a wash of white heat, gritted teeth, and no sound – never any sound, not here.

He pulls out and drops to his knees, head in his hands. It's not enough. It's never enough, and he will hate himself for it later. Right now, though—

He looks up. Jim's chains are gone, the straitjacket has morphed into a sleek suit, and his face is clean-shaven and angular. His hair is slicked back and his eyes are dark, hollow, shark-like.

"Really, Sherlock? So predictable. So _boooring_."

Sherlock doesn't reply, just stares up at him. It's better if he doesn't speak, doesn't react, doesn't think. 

"Oh, all right." Jim sighs, put-upon, and makes a show of unfastening his trousers. The expensive fabric slumps to the floor and melts away, and Sherlock closes his eyes, turns away, leans his head on his forearms. "It's disappointing, you know, seeing you like this, desperate for it. God, I'm glad I'm dead. I think I'd kill myself otherwise."

There is a cold hand on Sherlock's hip and then he grunts in pain as Jim pushes into him. It always hurts, but the pain is clarifying, necessary. His hands scrabble against the concrete beneath him, trying to find resistance as Jim starts to fuck him slowly.

"What would Janine say, if she saw you like this? Would she be surprised that you don't want to fuck her, that you'd rather shoot up and bend over for me? You can't even pretend to be into pussy, can you? At least I could do that."

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly. His high is wearing off too soon. He's starting to think too much, and _fuck_ why did he have to back off on the dosage tonight?

"And oh oh _oh_ , what would John say?" Jim makes a tsk-ing sound. "Would he be disappointed too? He'll never want you now, wouldn't want to put his cock where mine's been." Jim's hips slam against Sherlock's arse, pressing his face against the hard floor, again and again. "Oh, what _am_ I saying? He never wanted you anyway." A hand in his hair then, pulling to the point of pain, forcing his head up to face the doorway, and Jim's voice is nearly wet against his ear. "Oh, dear me, what's that I hear? Someone's coming. Someone's going to seeeeee." 

"No," Sherlock whispers, but the door opens anyway, and John is standing there in his button-down shirt and cardigan, just staring at him, horrified.

"He's never going to want you," Jim sings, his voice a crackle in Sherlock's ear. 

"No!" Sherlock says again, and the door swings closed with a loud metallic clang. Jim's thrusts are faster now, harder, brutal, punishing, and Sherlock presses his forehead against the cold floor. "No," Sherlock whispers, and clenches his jaw. The pain is supposed to be clarifying, but it's not working this time. He can't push it all away; he can't stop thinking about the image of John burned into his brain – disgusted, disappointed, _finished_. 

"There's not enough smack in the world," Jim says, and he comes, and he's right. 

He feels empty now, used, worn out, defeated. But he _feels_ , and that was the point. Maybe. Was it the point?

He sits up and Jim is chained again, hair wild and dirty and eyes half-dead. "Was it bad for you?"

Sherlock ignores him and sprawls on his back on the floor. The concrete has shifted into something else now – it's soft and cool, and the light is dim. His body is heavy and he sinks, floats. 

It doesn't matter now, none of it does. It's not real. 

" _Hello, mate._ "

John. Sherlock closes his eyes. It's never John, not like this. The point of the high is to get away from John and thoughts of John and fucking _feelings_ about John, and—

"Doctor Watson. Have you come for me?"

Sherlock opens his eyes again, turns his head. It's dawn. He's awake. He blinks and his eyes feel dusty, disused, but that is definitely John kneeling on the floor, examining the young man on the adjacent mattress. 

_Nineteen, lives with his mother, can't find a job despite good GCSE results, only recently started using heroin—_

"Do you think I know a lot of people here?" John's voice is kind, understanding, gentle. He's concerned, but not disgusted.

He could just lie still, hood pulled over his face. John will take the kid and go, and be none the wiser. He's never noticed before, certainly. But this – Sherlock winces – he can't keep doing this. It's almost time and he'll need John for the next part. John hasn't seen the worst of him, not yet, and he needs to see. Sherlock needs him to see. Otherwise… what's the point? 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and pushes himself up on his elbows.

"Ah, hello, John."

*****

~ _fin_ ~


End file.
